


Entwined

by jamieherondxle



Category: A Court of Thorns and Roses Series - Sarah J. Maas
Genre: F/M, Insomnia, NSFW, Nudity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-18
Updated: 2017-07-18
Packaged: 2018-12-03 23:03:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,650
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11542269
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jamieherondxle/pseuds/jamieherondxle
Summary: A Cassian POV, Nessian nsfw one-shot, in which:- Nesta cannot sleep, and neither can Cassian- Cassian brushes her hair- Sexytimes happen





	Entwined

“I cannot sleep.” She did not turn around, but muttered the words, as if talking dazedly to herself.

She was dressed in a long nightdress, wrapped over with a navy nightgown that she held tight over her body, arms folded, back hunched over. She watched the fire blazing in the grate intently. He watched the flames reflect in her eyes.  _Like calls to like._

“And…” he tried to suppress the mocking tone in his voice, “looking at the fire…helps?”

Silently, she shook her head. “Nothing. Nothing helps.”

He went to sit next to her. He placed himself carefully, close enough not to be distanced; far enough to have a neat gap between them.

‘What are  _you_ doing up?”

“Can’t you smell it?” He laughed. “I’ve been training.”

She glanced at him incredulously. “You train — in the middle of the night?”

He smiled, even though she was not looking at him. “When I can’t sleep.”

She looked distinctly unimpressed. “And that helps?”

“Wearing my body out— sometimes, most of the time.”

“And now?”

He looked into those grey eyes, molten in the warmth of the room. “No. Not now.”

She looked away, back at the fire. “Why do you always— why are you staring at me?”

He thought on his feet. “I’m just thinking—“ gently, he took a strand of her hair that had fallen stray from the hair piled on top of her head, “Is it not uncomfortable, sleeping like this? Do you never take it down?”

She looked at him, mouth parted. He couldn’t help looking down it, the light catching the luscious swell of her lower lip.

“If you want to…then do it.” She had a determined look on her face, as if it was some sacrifice to her, or as if some great pain were welling up inside her.

He could see her pulse, thrumming beneath her jaw, how her chest heaved. He knew that this was wasn’t easy for her — she did not have the sexual confidence that Feyre did, and guarded every inch of her body closely. For women like Nesta, women of her class — they did not just show their hair to anyone. It was deeply intimate, a part of them reserved strictly for the marriage bed.

But she shifted, turning away, allowing him to find the pins, the slides, fingers gently displacing them. He put them all on the edge of the chair, and eventually, great ropes of her hair cascaded down her back. He was shocked, despite himself, at how voluminous it was, at its length, the curling ends of it brushing her hips. He was struck by how much younger she looked, how it changed the shape of her face — of how much she suddenly resembled her sisters.

Her shoulders were taut as he trailed his fingers through the falling hair, untwining the plaits. The waves glimmered a bright, saffron gold in the firelight. It was soft, killingly soft, as he caressed it, and held a piece up to his cheek, grinning blissfully to himself.

He murmured, continuing to comb through the plaits, “I can’t remember the last time I felt something this soft,”

She did not reply, only tilting her head backwards, allowing him more access to the top of her head. Mostly undone now, he slipped his fingers through the last remaining twines of her hair. Then, he allowed himself to do what he’d imagined himself doing, for so long: he took her hair in his hands by the roots, bundling it all up, and buried his face into it, inhaling deeply. He closed his eyes. Her scent, here, was like a sharp kick to his stomach. Intense, and doubly so for having been piled up on her head all day, like shoving his nose into the lip of a perfume bottle, the scent so heady it was like fumes winding their way down his throat, ripplingly outwards. A sound emitted from him, an embarrassingly vulnerable-sounding groan, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. The scent curled its way down and down, hooking around some vital, primal nerve inside him, in communion with something. It felt so right, so perfect, here —he knew this scent,  _he knew it, he knew it_  and it called to him, burrowing somewhere in his bones, rousing his blood. He felt his cock twitch, pressure building, thickening tightly all over his groin, every limb in his body electric.

Opening his eyes, he did not allow himself to think, only moved with instinct, as he drew closer to her, and, widening his hands, massaged the roots of her hair. He heard her make a soft whimper, and then a louder one; this time there was a smile in it. Her head must have been aching.

She was leaning backwards now, eyes shut, straining towards him. But he stopped, and buried his face into the underside of her neck, just below her ear. The flesh here was delicate, and almost frighteningly pale. He gripped her shoulder with his other hand and began kissing underneath her jaw — reminded, suddenly, of the last time he had done this. Just like then, his mouth sought for, and fixed on her pulse. He let his tongue press, suckling it. He heard her gasp, a stunned release of breath. “Nesta,” he whispered, “may I kiss you, now — properly?”

A small nod. “Yes.” Finally, finally, he brought his lips down on hers. How he had dreamed of this, too. Wondered what her lips would feel like. He was not disappointed.

He was gentle, unhurried, pressing, but chaste — he did not know how much practice she had had at this, and he didn’t want to frighten her. But then her hands were all over him, licensed now, roving all over his chest. He felt pain as her fingernails dug into the muscle in his shoulders.

It was she who parted her mouth, the tip of her tongue timidly fondling his, lining the swell of his bottom lip. It was all too easy, too natural, to give in: letting his jaw slacken, dragging her closer to him. His knees were in the way, but he was aware that if she were any closer, she’d feel his arousal, bursting to be let free. They were deep in each others mouths, now, all burning, mingled and moaning.  

His hands found the lapels of her nightgown and pushed it off, delighted when it was finally off her shoulders.

He broke away — panting raggedly — and began moving down her neck, travelling down her chest, kissing, painting her with his tongue.  _This glorious skin,_ he thought, so smooth and unscarred, and then: her breasts, swollen and loose beneath her nightdress. Lightly, he placed his hands on them — and then her hands, in his hair, tugging, she raised herself up, wanting more.

He paused, and moved his gaze up to meet hers. Her lips were swollen, cheeks flaring rose-pink, her eyes heavy-lidded as she looked down on him. An unspoken communication flowed between them, and, silently, she reached up to the straps across her shoulders, ripping them down her arms, then sitting up, so that the night dress fell, draping round her waist. He looked her up and down, unable to breathe.

Suddenly alert to the dampness around his groin, he took in the gorgeous shape of them, how they wobbled slightly as she straightened, how the large, reddened nipple was erect, ripe to be touched, to be kissed. She swallowed, grabbing his hands shakingly, and guided them to her. She gasped at the contact.  

“You are so…so beautiful.” They filled his hands, supple and warm, he circled gently, handling the outsides, drawing circles over them. Then he grabbed harder, grinding, squeezing, brushing the nipple with his thumb. 

Every exhalation that she made was, now, gasping, helpless whimpering; her hips were beginning to undulate. Her expression was one of exquisite pain and saying, over and over, “Yes.”

He brought his mouth down onto her breast, and at this she let out a loud moan, grabbing the back of his head and forcing his mouth down, deeper. He kissed everywhere, and then introduced his teeth on the underside of her breast. And then, finally, he began to suckle her nipple. He thought, feeling the surface of the hot, velvet-smooth, sensitive flesh there with the edge of his tongue, that even if he’d done this 10,000 times, it wouldn’t be enough. “Oh—ohmygod,  _Cassian.”_

His lust, now, had a life of its own: it was a white hot, feverish, manic thing. All it would take, it whispered to him suggestively, was to push her down, lifting up her knees — it would be that easy. And she would tilt her head back, unfurling for him completely.

So he ripped himself away, the taste of her still in his mouth, and, gasping, spat, “We need to stop. Stop. Now.”

“What? What—why?”

He glanced over at her darkly. “There’s only one way this is going to end.”

“Yes, that’s—“

“No! It’s not right. It’s taking advantage, and I’m not doing it.” He shifted to the edge, as if making to leave.

“Wh—you’re leaving me like this?!” She looked outraged, insulted, her hair mussed, a long tendril falling over her breast.

“I’m taking you back to your bed, to sleep.”

“No, I—“

But he had already lifted her up, bodily, into his arms. He hushed her frantically — they’d been loud enough, already. She hunched herself into him, trying to cover herself, cheeks burning.

When back in her room, she launched herself out of his arms furiously. A quick glimpse of her bare back and then fumbling at her nightdress, which she shoved up, covering her. Throwing back the covers, she lay down, facing deliberately away from him. He went to her bedside. “Good night, Nesta.” He pressed a small, chaste kiss to her forehead, that lingered too long, and left. 


End file.
